


By the Dashboard Light

by aghamora



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Car Sex, Exhibitionism, F/M, Riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 16:09:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15998723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aghamora/pseuds/aghamora
Summary: “This issonot cool, dude, you guys are gonna get all kinds of bodily fluids on my upholstery-”“Look, Doucheface, I’ll give you fifty bucks if you shut the hell up and drive. Half now, half after we’re done. Deal?”Or, Frank and Laurel get frisky in the backseat of an Uber. Asher is unfortunate enough to be the one driving that Uber.





	By the Dashboard Light

**Author's Note:**

> Or, I was listening to 'Partition' by Beyonce... and this was born in my brain. Title comes from the song 'Paradise by the Dashboard Light' by Meat Loaf, which is pretty much the OG song about car fucking.

As soon as his ride request is accepted and the Uber driver’s face pops up on his phone screen, Frank can’t help but snicker.

Laurel, who is standing beside him in front of their building, narrows her eyes. “What?”

“Get a load of this,” he chuckles, passing the phone over to her. “Everybody’s favorite Doucheface is driving Uber now.”

Laurel laughs as soon as she catches a glimpse of the photo: Asher in front of a blank white wall, smiling too eagerly with his chin held at too high of an angle, like a child’s third-grade yearbook photo.

“Oh, God,” she scoffs. “Well, he’s rated 4.8 stars, so at least he probably won’t kill us.”

“What I wanna know is what brain-dead asshole thinks he makes ‘great conversation.’”

“Be nice,” Laurel chortles. “’Great amenities’ too. Oh, and ‘awesome music.’ You think he plays his own raps?”

“If he does, I’m jumping outta the car and you’re gonna have to scrape me off the street like roadkill.”

“Then _you’ll_ be one of the brain-dead assholes who thinks he makes great conversation,” Laurel jokes. “Besides, it’d ruin your pretty face.”

Frank slides his phone back into his pocket and refocuses his attention on Laurel, all dolled up in makeup and a little black dress like he hasn’t seen her in ages, because most of the time these days they alternate between being covered in puke, poop, or baby food, or some particularly noxious combination of all three. They were never the dinner-date type even back before Christopher, and this is all refreshingly new and normal, and right then, all he really wants to do is stare, dinner reservations in twenty be damned. She’s gilded under the streetlight and warm when he pulls her into him, taking a second to savor this moment.

“Forgot to tell you,” he murmurs, “how beautiful you look tonight.”

“You already told me twice.”

Shit. He knew that. Or did he? Sometimes he swears just being in her presence turns him into a brainless, blabbering idiot, but he shrugs it off casually with a wink. “What’s one more time then?”

Laurel hums, amused, before leaning up against the lamppost and glancing down at his suit, the grey three-piece she’d been not-so-subtly hinting she missed, until he’d finally caved and bought a new one two weeks ago. Complete with a tie and a dollop of hair gel, he looks like his old self again; the man she remembers.

“I did miss the three-piece,” she remarks as she reaches out to finger his lapel. “Although… I have to admit, I think it’ll look better on the bedroom floor, later.”

He huffs a laugh. “Sounds like a line I’d use.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you’re starting to rub off on me.”

“Maybe,” he concedes, leaning in closer. “You tryin’ to get me to buy you dinner _and_ put out? ‘Cause we can just skip the food and go right back upstai-”

The shrill honking of a car horn drowns him out before he can say another word.

“Frankie D! Whatado, my dude!”

He groans internally, and Laurel groans _ex_ ternally, making a soft sound of dismay under her breath. Frank puts on the most pleasant expression he can muster – which isn’t very – and turns to find Asher pulling over to the curb and poking his head out of the driver’s side of a shitty old Honda Civic. Music is blaring over the speakers, something that sounds like the Beastie Boys, and-

God dammit. He’s suddenly not sure why he subjected them to this.

Asher seems to realize Laurel is there too, right then, because he adds, “Oh – hey, you brought the baby mama! Is this date night? If you were gonna ditch the kid, you should’ve had me babysit, yo!”

“Bonnie’s watching him,” Laurel answers as she slides into the backseat. Frank climbs in after her, closing the door behind him. “You drive Uber now?”

“And Lyft. _And_ Safr – a ridesharing platform focused on the safety and empowerment of women. I’ve been empowering the _hell_ out of some foxy ladies.” He shrugs. “Gotta get them racks on racks on racks somehow. I’ve only had, like, two people puke in my backseat so far.”

Laurel’s face scrunches up in disgust. Frank takes inventory of said backseat with a scowl, eyes falling on a pocket hung over the passenger seat filled with gum, Funyuns, a few bottles of Pedialyte, and phone chargers – iPhone _and_ Android. He’s somehow rigged up a mini disco ball to hang from the ceiling, and there are light-up dancefloor tiles beneath their feet too, flashing red and orange. It’s like Cash Cab meets frat boy cave all packed into a rusted-out Civic, complete with pink fuzzy dice in the rearview mirror.

Somehow, it’s no more than what Frank was expecting.

“The Douchefacemobile could use some work,” he jeers. “The hell you drivin’ this beat-up old thing for anyway? Ain’t your family loaded?”

“Hey, I bought her with my own hard-earned cash from Craigslist, okay? And I was disowned. So. Started from the bottom now we here.”

Frank takes another look around. “Kinda seems like you’re still at the bottom.”

“You refer to your car using feminine pronouns?” Laurel asks, giving Frank a sideways glance with laughter in her eyes.

Undaunted, Asher shifts the car into gear and pulls out onto the street.

“God is a woman, Castillo, and so is my car. Now, do you guys want my 90s hip hop nostalgia playlist, my feminist rock anthems playlist, my Boyz II Men playlist, or my playlist that’s just ‘Despacito’ twenty times? For you guys, I’d recommend the Boyz II Men, for, y’know-” He takes his eyes off the road and looks back at them only long enough to wriggle his eyebrows suggestively. “Getting in that boning state of mind. These have all been painstakingly curated for maximum rider satisfaction, by the way-”

Frank can feel a headache building behind his eyes. “How about a playlist that’s just fifteen minutes of silence?”

The jab, predictably, flies a mile over Asher’s head. Beside him, Laurel pinches the bridge of her nose.

“Don’t have that one. I do have one with Gregorian monk chants, though-”

“That was code for stop talking. And keep your eyes on the road, else you’re gonna orphan Little C.”

A moment of silence. Asher’s mouth snaps shut so quickly he can hear the sound of his teeth clicking when they collide, and Frank has no idea why, but he almost feels _bad_.

Raising a baby, man. It does stuff to your head.

“Sorry,” Asher finally mumbles, with a dejected sigh. “It’s just… ever since Michaela cheated on me I’ve-”

Frank tunes him out at the precise moment he feels Laurel’s hand inch-worming across his thigh. He turns his head to look at her and finds that she’s angled herself toward him, gnawing on her lower lip in a mischievous way he knows all so well, the look she gets when she’s rearing to go. She shifts, pressing her legs together, and there’s a sharp, calculating hunger in her eyes; the look of a cat right before it pounces. It’s clear she has about as much interest in Asher’s story as he does, and after a moment she mouths _I want you_ , pausing before adding a decisive _Now_.

The word catches fire when she leans in to kiss him, light and chaste at first before it becomes anything _but_ : sloppy, open-mouthed, all tongue and teeth and no teasing. Normally when Laurel initiates kisses she doesn’t escalate the intensity so quickly unless she’s a particular kind of hot-blooded, all worked up and tight like a wire, and she unbuckles her seatbelt to move in closer, reaching over to do the same for his. Her hands roam his body, pressing down on his waistcoat, his arms, the lapels of his jacket and steadily venturing further and further south, where he can already feel himself growing hard. His head is still spinning from the sudden change of pace, zero to sixty in about three seconds, but like hell he’s going to stop her.

Car sex is their forte, after all.

Asher is still whining about something, spilling out his relationship woes like they’re a couple of bartenders pretending to care – although they aren’t even pretending at this point, completely wrapped up in each other and getting increasingly hot and heavy as discretely as they can manage. All the blood in his body rushes down between his legs, leaving him lightheaded and pliable. Laurel gives him a firm squeeze over his slacks, and he has to bite his tongue to keep him moaning aloud, his cock tenting the fabric now and aching for her touch. They’re good at keeping things on the DL, Frank has to give them that, as good as they are at exhibitionism. Covert exhibitionists, if such a thing exists.

“I wanna fuck you,” Laurel hisses, low enough so Asher can’t hear her, and Frank’s throat gives an audible click from the force of his swallow. It’s his every filthy fantasy come to life, Laurel’s hands all over him and her breath like steam in his ear, whispering filthy sweet nothings. “I can’t stop looking at you…”

He chuckles. “Suit really got you this worked up?”

“ _Hell_ yes,” she breathes. Her lips descend to his neck, sucking at the patch of skin under which his pulse is hammering away, and all at once he can feel that hammering in his cock too, and he knows he doesn’t stand a chance. He never does when she takes charge like this. “I wanna ruin it.”

Frank is just about to open his mouth to tell her she’s more than welcome to do just that when-

“Woah, hey, can you guys get a room? And like, a room that’s not my car? Were you even _listening_ to me?”

Frank glances over at him while Laurel continues kissing at his neck, undeterred. “Eyes on the road, kid.”

Asher huffs. “You guys are the worst friends ever, y’know.”

Frank isn’t exactly sure when he signed up to be friends with any of these people, if he’s being honest, but by being Laurel’s friends they’ve wound up being his friends too, through some sort of unwitting friendship osmosis, and he tolerates them for her sake. He opens his mouth to say something, but Laurel presses her lips down onto his before he can, kissing him ravenously, like she wants to eat him alive – in a way she hasn’t in a while. He refuses to believe their sex life has become dull with a kid in the picture, but it has become a good deal more predictable, and they’ve settled into a softer, sweeter lifestyle – not all that fire and fury and fucking on porches. So Frank can’t help but laugh when he blinks and finds himself with a squirming lapful of Laurel, brazen and so honed-in on him it’s like she’s forgotten where they are altogether.

“Somebody’s eager,” he breathes between kisses, as he feels her palming him over his slacks once more. “Not gonna make it to the restaurant at this rate.”

She pulls back momentarily, lipstick smudged, before grabbing his tie to pull him into another kiss. “I don’t care.”

From the front seat, Asher protests, “Oh my God, Frankie D, can you please refrain from having your D fondled in my backseat? That’s, like, the pinnacle of rude things to do to a person, and I am _not_ a consenting third party-”

“App said you had good amenities,” Frank shoots back, breathless and smirking with lipstick prints all over his neck. “That include condoms?”

Laurel giggles against his mouth. Asher scoffs, indignant.

“This is _so_ not cool, dude, you guys are gonna get all kinds of bodily fluids on my upholstery-”

Frank pumps the breaks for a moment, pulling away from Laurel long enough to reach into his back pocket, withdraw his wallet, and pull out a few bills.

“Look, Doucheface,” he barters. “I’ll give you fifty bucks if you shut the hell up and drive. Half now, half after we’re done. Deal?”

Silence. He hands the money to Laurel, who holds it out to Asher, who finally exhales grudgingly and grabs it.

“I will not have my car rented out like a brothel, for the record,” he grumbles. “But – ugh, _fine_. Seatbelts on, though.”

“Got it,” Laurel laughs, meeting Frank’s eyes with a wink. “Safe sex only, you hear?”

Thanks be to God Asher shuts up after that, and Frank is finally able to focus the bulk of his attention on Laurel, who is still in his lap, grinding and squirming and decidedly _not_ wearing her seatbelt. He slips his hand under her dress, against the gusset of her panties, and she’s as soaked as he expected, even with minimal foreplay and an admittedly unsavory setting. He only partially manages to bite back his groan at the sensation, her cunt burning already for him, coating his fingers.

“And here I thought,” he purrs, voice warm like whiskey, “I was gonna have to get you warmed up.”

Laurel cocks her head to one side. “Ten minutes to the restaurant. You gonna get your money’s worth or what?”

He teases only for a few seconds longer, dragging his fingers over her panties and then sliding inside, over the slick mess of her cunt. He brushes the nub of her clit and she gasps into his mouth, grinding down again in search of his fingers, and when he finally obliges and fucks two of them into her, she moans, pussy suctioning around them. She’s a vision in the low light, patterned with refracted spots from the disco ball and painted deep red and orange by the streetlamps flickering by outside. She’s more beautiful than ever in the shadows, heavily-lidded eyes, disheveled by his hands.

And he’s not done disheveling her yet.

When he adds a third, thick finger, he feels her stretch, full to capacity, but Laurel shows no signs of disapproval. If anything, it only drives her on, makes her greedier. She doesn’t hold back her sounds, stifle them for Asher’s sake or the sake of her own modesty; she lets herself gasp and groan and whimper, show off how good it feels. She grows more aggressive by the second, hips rocking faster as he hooks his fingers, and when she catches his lip between her teeth and bites down hard as if to say _Hurry the fuck up already_ , Frank could swear he-

“ _I’ve been really tryin’, baby._ ”

The distinctive opening notes of ‘Let’s Get It On’ come over the speakers, followed by that familiar raspy croon – and suddenly, he’s groaning for a very different reason. Laurel just chuckles against his neck at the addition of the soundtrack, and she must sense that he’s about to yell because she places both hands on his cheeks, forcing him to look at her.

“Don’t,” she says. “Just focus on me.”

That’s not all that hard to do when he’s buried up to his knuckles in her. If she isn’t bothered, then Frank figures he shouldn’t be, either.

At least Doucheface is doing his part to set the mood.

He keeps up his teasing, bringing her right to the precipice but refusing to take her any further, and he can feel the exact moment her patience snaps like a frayed thread. Her hand darts out, retrieving his wallet from where he’d tossed it beside them, and it takes her all of 0.5 seconds to liberate a condom with one hand while she liberates his cock with the other.

They’ve gotten especially efficient at fucking in unconventional places over the years, though if he thinks too much about their current situation – fucking in the backseat of Asher’s car with Laurel occasionally having to dodge a disco ball overhead and the most cliché sex song ever blasting over the speakers – it’s more than likely his junk is going to invert and halt this process entirely. Laurel is obviously intent on keeping that from happening, however, smoothing her hands up and down his length and moaning as if he’s already inside her, as if only feeling what she does to him gets her off just as much.

“You ready for me?” he asks, more rhetorical than anything; to wind her up, though she obviously doesn’t need any more winding up.

“Have been since before we left.” She grins like a cat, small and subdued but quietly vicious. “Since you put the suit on.”

“You got a three-piece fetish or somethin’?”

“Don’t get cocky.”

Frank glances down at his dick, raising an eyebrow. “Too late for that.”

With both of them laughing, he helps her roll the condom down onto him, an act of mutual trust that feels equally hot and tender; not a barrier between them, but a bridge. And Laurel doesn’t need guiding, she never has, but she lets him guide her down onto his cock nonetheless. He makes her feel every inch of him as he opens her up, moving excruciatingly slow, until he’s sheathed fully inside her and she’s buried her face into his throat, too overwhelmed by sensation to hold herself upright.

“Oh, yeah,” she chokes out, giving a laugh that sounds downright giddy. “Fuck, that’s good.”

It’s up to her to control the pace and depth, for the most part, and after a moment Laurel places both hands on the headrests and begins to ride him. She finds her rhythm within a minute, without even having to try; she remembers how to ride him like a bicycle, all reflex and instinct and muscle memory. Natural and smooth as the soul music on the stereo. She’s tight around his cock, the combined friction and heat almost unbearable, and he leans his head back, letting the rest of the world evaporate and compress down until it consists only of her.

All he wants to do is watch her ride him, hot and shameless in his lap. Taking him inside her as if feeling his cock for the first time all over again. She’s perfect. She’s fucking amazing.

He’s so fucking _lucky_.

She was close already, and it doesn’t take long for Laurel’s movements to become forceful, staccato, increasingly wild. She grinds her clit against his pelvic bone, delving down onto him. Those primal instincts take control of her, and before long she’s almost slamming herself down, bringing them both to a rapid crescendo as the song does the same. Their moans become the voices of the singers, her cries the high-pitched squeals of the wind instruments, their labored breathing the hiss of the cymbals. It all blends together into a discordant, sensual symphony, spiraling out of control.

He cries out when he comes, and he doesn’t, normally, but something about all the sensory input at once breaks him. Laurel overwhelms his senses, becomes his sight and taste and smell and everything. She’s a hurricane, wrapping him up in the eye of her storm and wreaking havoc, and it isn’t until she’s finally finished too that he feels even remotely satisfied. However overwhelmed by his own pleasure he may be, he’s always tuned into her, and that’s like instinct, too. As subconscious as breathing.

She muffles most of her moans in his shoulder, body spasming and her cunt gripping him like a fist. The feeling doubles the intensity of his own orgasm, and he swears his vision whites out momentarily, until the world crossfades back into view and he finds a sweaty Laurel still straddling him, loose-limbed and humming contently. With hazy eyes, she licks her lips and reaches down to remove the condom, tying it off. Normally she isn’t the one to put him back together, but this time she does: she tucks his cock away once he’s gone soft and refastens his belt, smoothing down the material, letting her fingertips linger for a few suggestive seconds on his groin before she pats it gently.

“There,” she coos. “Good as new.”

She is certainly anything but; wild sex hair and streaked lipstick and rumpled LBD, one heel lying on the floor, used condom in her hand. Messy. Just like he likes her.

“I love you,” he blurts out, head all clouded by endorphins. His hands paw at her, grope at the fabric of her dress to bring her closer. “I love you so fucking much-”

From the front seat, the sound of a throat clearing. A swift gut-punch of reality.

“Yoo-hoo, ground control to Major Nympho! This is a metered spot. You know we’ve been here for, like, three minutes, right?”

Shit.

“Shit,” Laurel echoes the sentiment out loud, clambering sideways off him and smoothing her dress down as best as she can. “We’re gonna miss the reservation.”

They’re going to look ridiculous, Frank can already tell, sauntering into the restaurant very clearly having just fucked only moments ago, running late because of some flimsy excuse he’s yet to devise. At this point, though, he’s not going to pretend like he has any shame; they did just fuck in front of their Uber driver, and _Asher_ , at that.

He can’t decide if that’s better or worse than a stranger. Probably worse.

“Worth it,” he remarks, as he retrieves the remaining money and holds it out to Asher. “As promised.”

He holds up a hand to stop him. “No – no! Just… set it back there, okay, I’m gonna sanitize it first.”

Frank considers that and nods.

“Good call.” He sets it on the seat instead, then pushes open the door. “Go buy yourself somethin’ pretty.”

Laurel stumbles out after him on shaky legs, all wobbly like a newborn foal in her heels, but before he can close the door behind them, Asher calls out, “Just FYI – if there are _any_ stains of dubious origin, I swear I’m-”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Send me an invoice,” Frank retorts, then smirks. “You’re welcome for the show, Doucheface.”

“Okay, if anything, man, I think tonight has definitely proven that _you’re_ the-”

Frank slams the car door before he can get in another word, loops an arm around Laurel, and walks her inside.

And yeah, he does rate the ride five stars, later. What the hell. He’s feeling generous.


End file.
